A Special Cornish Christmas, page 1
A SPECIAL CORNISH CHRISTMAS
Phillipa Ashley
Copyright
Published by AVON
A Division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2021
Copyright © Phillipa Ashley 2021
Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2021
Cover illustrations © Hannah George / Meiklejohn
Phillipa Ashley asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780008371661
Ebook Edition © November 2021 ISBN: 9780008371678
Version: 2021-09-20
Dedication
For my mum and dad
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Acknowledgements
Keep Reading …
About the Author
Also by Phillipa Ashley
About the Publisher
Chapter One
Falford, Christmas Eve
‘Happy Christmas Eve!’
Bo Grayson’s pulse rocketed as two arms encircled her unexpectedly in the twilight outside the Boatyard Café. She’d just given the padlock on the door a final tug to check it was secure before the festive break.
‘Oh my God, Hamish! You scared me.’
‘Sorry,’ he said, freeing her so she could turn around and look at him face to face. ‘Didn’t mean to make you jump.’
‘It’s OK – you just took me by surprise.’
‘Well, I’m a good surprise, I hope?’
Bo hesitated, but only to keep him on tenterhooks. Hamish MacKenzie had made her heart pound far too often over the past few months, and it was fun to see him unsure about her feelings for a change.
‘Yes, you are a good surprise,’ she conceded.
A satisfied grin spread over his face and his eyes glinted. ‘Cade not around?’ he asked, scanning the terrace area next to the café beside the estuary. Birds called as dusk fell and lights already twinkled in the windows of the cottages of Falford village, which straddled both sides of the creek.
‘No. I sent him home half an hour ago. He wanted to help me clear away and close up but he deserves some time with his family on Christmas Eve. He’s worked so hard all season. Neither of us has been able to have a proper break.’ Cade was not only Bo’s assistant but also one of her regular partners at the Falford Flingers, the dance group of which she was a member.
‘You’ve worked bloody hard too. You’re a saint,’ Hamish said, then raised one of his eyebrows suggestively. ‘Though not too much of one, I hope.’
Suddenly he swept into his arms and kissed her, the soft wool of his scarf tickling her nose and making her laugh so that the kiss ended sooner than she’d really have liked. Then again, it was always too soon to end one of Hamish’s kisses.
‘Sorry,’ Bo said, wrinkling her nose and trying not to sneeze, which would have been most unromantic. ‘Your scarf got in the way.’
‘In that case, I must remember not to wear it again.’ His eyes glinted with promise. ‘I wouldn’t want to let anything get in the way of kissing you.’
With a tingle of excitement, Bo tucked the scarf deeper into the open neck of his Barbour jacket. He looked more delicious than anything she’d served up in the Boatyard café over the past six weeks. Bo could still hardly believe that this year, for the first time in many, she wouldn’t be waking up alone on Christmas Day. She’d always enjoyed spending the day with her parents, sister, brother-in-law and little niece and nephew, but it would be lovely to wake up with Hamish and share breakfast in her own place; open their presents together before heading off to visit her family.
She’d had his present wrapped up and hidden away in the back of her wardrobe for weeks now, and she couldn’t wait to give it to him. She’d ordered a beautiful hip flask – sterling silver with his initials engraved. As they hadn’t been together for too long, she felt confident this was just the right sort of gift: a playful nod to his Scots heritage, but also something personal – a keepsake from her.
Bo smiled to herself, thinking how lucky she was to have found Hamish. It wasn’t easy meeting new people in a small village like Falford and, though Hamish was working in nearby Helston, it was fair to say he’d caused a stir for miles around. He was tall and hunky with curly brown hair and a Highlands accent to-die-for and – God love him – he was a vet.
He was single too, which had seemed like a minor miracle. He was also a keen sailor and had been given use of a colleague’s yacht which was kept at the boatyard. After a few visits to Bo’s café and a lot of chat, he’d asked her out for a drink and a meal at a local pub. That had been back in September and, it was safe to say, they hadn’t wasted any time since.
‘You managed to get away from work, then?’ Bo said, knowing the vet’s surgery where he worked always planned to close at three on Christmas Eve, but that was never usually the case with people rushing to make last-minute appointments for their pets ahead of the holidays.
‘Remarkably, aye. I castrated a male cat and emptied the anal glands of an elderly spaniel but that’s as wild as it got. Luckily I’m not on call for a few days so we can make the most of our lie-in tomorrow.’
‘I can’t wait,’ Bo said. She’d always loved Christmas morning, and spending it with Hamish would be the cherry on top of the icing on a very large and delicious cake.
‘Come on, let’s go home and I’ll have a shower before we go over to the Ferryman.’
‘You’d better plan on inviting me to share that shower …’
At thirty-five, Bo had thought she was past the age of blushing, but the prospect of getting hot and soapy with Hamish brought a glow to her cheeks despite the damp evening. He’d warmed her nights as the weather turned cooler, and her days off had been filled with walks, pub lunches and afternoons in his bed. She’d even persuaded him to call in at a Falford Flingers social night once, but he’d drawn the line at joining in with the dancing.
He was solvent, single and thirty-seven. On their first date Bo had known he was perfect for her, and she tried in vain not to fall too hard for him. She’d woken up one morning next to him and, watching him as he slept, realised that, despite her best efforts to keep things casual and keep her cool, she was in love. Deeply, madly in love – was there any other kind?
He tucked his arm around her now and they walked up to the car park where he’d left his mud-spattered Land Rover. Bo heaved a sigh of relief. She loved the run-up to Christmas but she was mighty glad she’d served her last turkey and cranberry wrap, festive brownie and spiced latte until after the New Year.
She was looking forward to two weeks of snuggling up by the fire, watching trashy TV and lie-ins with Hamish until he headed home to Scotland for Hogmanay. Now she could relax, put on her dancing shoes and cherry-red frock and head to the pub with Hamish to celebrate with her friends from th
Hamish drove up the hill towards the bridge that crossed the head of the creek and across the water then back down into Falford village. The lane was narrow and ran in front of the cottages and the shops until it turned sharply upwards again and out of the village.
Bo’s little cottage was situated in the centre of the village on the opposite side of the creek to the boatyard.
Falford itself was a sheltered offshoot of the main Fal estuary, which gave way to the open sea on the eastern side of the Lizard. Its creeks were dotted with villages and hamlets, havens for watercraft of all kinds. Coloured fairy lights adorned the terrace of the Ferryman Inn and the Falford Yacht Club which faced each other on opposite sides of the water. The art gallery and folklore gift shop, Cornish Magick, had closed for the holidays, but their windows were still aglow with festive displays.
The post office-cum-village store near Bo’s cottage was still open, though, and would be for a while, catering to locals and holidaymakers scurrying in for cranberry sauce, tinfoil or an extra bottle of prosecco.
Hamish parked next to Bo’s small van in the village residents’ car park and, with his arm around her, they walked through the clear Cornish air to her cottage. Bo’s fingers trembled in anticipation as she unlocked the door, then led Hamish straight upstairs where he made good on his offer to join her in the shower. Getting clean after her long day at the café and his at the vet’s turned out to be the last thing on their minds – getting dirty was a more accurate description – but at last, fresh and steamy from the shower, they made it downstairs where Hamish lit the wood burner and they snuggled onto the sofa to relax and talk about the busy week they’d had in the run-up to Christmas.
Prior to buying the café, Bo had trained as a chef, learning her trade in various restaurants and pubs in the area before travelling and working abroad. She’d finally come home to Falford five years previously and found the Boatyard Café had come up for sale. It had been little more than a shack by the slipway, where the height of sophisticated cuisine was an egg on your sausage butty. The roof was leaking, the paint was peeling and the plastic chairs and tables were cracked.
Back then, it catered almost exclusively to boat workers and fishermen – it did the job, but Bo had always thought it held so much more potential, particularly as Falford Boatyard was becoming a trendy place to keep your boat as well as a practical one.
In the spring through to the autumn, Falford was bustling with visitors who gravitated to the water’s edge. All kinds of waterfowl feasted on the low-tide mudflats and sometimes seals and even dolphins popped up in the deeper parts of the estuary. The café was the perfect spot for watching all the action, and Bo had long cast a wistful eye on it, fantasising about how she’d transform it and keep customers coming all year round.
When she got the chance, she pounced.
She still served breakfast butties, but she offered them on bread from the local bakery rather than cheap loaves from the cash and carry. A few customers grumbled that she had to put up the price but most had forgiven her when they tasted the result, made from fresh Cornish produce.
The old-timers rolled their eyes when she added smashed avocado on sourdough to the menu, but they didn’t have to eat it and she knew the second-home owners and London holiday cottage visitors adored it. Over the summer, she’d been open seven days a week from nine until four, with the help of a couple of part-time staff who enabled her to have a rare day off. She’d done shorter hours and fewer days from October with another surge of six-day weeks in the run-up to Christmas. It was high time for a break and she’d never looked forward to it more.
Hamish had her feet in his lap and was massaging them. Closing her eyes, Bo sighed in ecstasy.
‘I could stay here all evening,’ he said.
‘Me too, but everyone’s expecting us and I need to get changed.’
His fingers encircled her ankle and slid higher up her leg. ‘Don’t see why.’
‘Because I can’t go to the pub wearing a fluffy bathrobe and no knickers.’
‘Again. I don’t see why not?’ He gave the cheeky grin that drove her wild.
Laughing, she extricated herself from the sofa, forcing any thoughts of lingering to the back of her mind.
‘I won’t be long.’
With an exaggerated sigh, he picked up the TV remote. ‘I’ll just have to amuse myself, I suppose.’
Her wardrobe was bulging with vintage pieces in her favourite 1950s style. She picked out a cherry-red velvet dress, which was nipped in at the waist with a sweetheart neckline and three-quarter-length sleeves. She added a black cropped cardigan she’d found on a vintage stall, black seamed tights and black patent shoes with chunky heels.
None of it was practical for a December night by the river but she didn’t care. It was only five minutes to the Ferryman and, although it was a damp night, it was still ten degrees in this mild corner of Cornwall, where camellias and magnolias were already in bloom thanks to the sheltered river valleys and micro-climate.
Hamish was sprawled on the sofa watching Die Hard when Bo entered the sitting room. He let out a whistle. ‘You look bloody amazing.’
‘Thanks. I’m probably overdressed for the Ferryman but it is Christmas Eve.’
He muted the sound and beckoned her closer. ‘As long as you’re underdressed later, I don’t care.’ He lifted the hem of her dress. ‘Are those stockings?’
‘That’s for me to know and you to find out.’
‘Well, that would only take me a minute …’ Hamish said suggestively as he started to run his fingers up from the back of her knee to her thigh.
Bo playfully batted his hand away, saying, ‘Not now! You’ll have to wait, but I wouldn’t get your hopes up.’
Trying not to think about how much she’d like to take Hamish up on his offer, Bo shooed him out of the house. He unhooked his battered Barbour from the hall stand and they stepped into the night air. The light mist was rising off the estuary and cast halos around the fairy lights adorning most of the homes and shops. The Ferryman was no exception, with strings of coloured bulbs that hung from the eaves and over its terrace. Even some of the yachts moored in the estuary and at the yacht club opposite had lights on their masts. Caught up in the festive excitement, Bo couldn’t wait to start the celebrations.
When they reached the Ferryman, some of the revellers had spilled out from the bar and onto the waterside terrace above the jetty. Waving at various locals, Bo and Hamish threaded their way through the drinkers, looking for the rest of the Flingers. The group’s leaders, Hubert and Sally Jaye, were sitting at a table by the fire with some of the other older members. Cade was their son, but he’d be spending Christmas Eve at home with his wife and new baby.
After a quick hello to her fellow dancers, Bo and Hamish went for a table in the corner where a bright-eyed middle-aged woman sat with a glass of Coke in front of her.
‘Hello, Angel! Happy Christmas!’ Bo said.
Angel Carrack sprang up and hugged her. ‘Happy Christmas! I saved you both a space – it’s packed in here.’
‘Thanks, Angel,’ Bo said.
‘Hello, Hamish. Happy Christmas,’ Angel said.
‘Happy Christmas,’ he replied, giving her a peck on the cheek.
Hamish popped to the bar while Bo and Angel chatted. Bo decided on a glass of mulled wine but Hamish wasn’t drinking, saying he’d had a skinful at the vet’s Christmas do earlier that week.
Bo shrugged off her coat, draping it over the back of her chair.
Angel gave a sigh. ‘Oh, I love that coat. You look amazing.’
‘You look fabulous yourself! Is that a new dress? What a gorgeous colour.’
Angel beamed as she smoothed out the skirt of her emerald-green satin dress. The style fitted her petite form like a glove and the colour perfectly complemented her auburn curls and green eyes. ‘It is! In fact, I made it.’
‘Wow. You’re so talented.’
Angel wrinkled her nose. ‘Tommy said it makes me look like a Christmas tree.’
‘You don’t! He’s rotten!’
‘He was only joking, I expect. He did also say it really suited me.’
‘I should hope so,’ Bo said, picturing Angel’s gruff husband and feeling quite cross with him for teasing her friend.
‘He’s coming to pick me up tonight. It’ll make a nice change for him not to be at sea and for me to have a lift rather than collecting him from the pub.’
