Page 20 of Christmas at the Little Cornish Bakery
Lola narrowed her eyes. ‘Well, as you’re a vicar, I’ll let you off. You are more responsible for the baby Jesus side of things. But we need to fix this tree situation.’
‘Well, if you’ve got nothing better to do right now, fancy giving me a hand?’
Lola made a show of pretending to wrestle with other plans. One tree was enough for one day, but Tristan looked adorable as he asked her. ‘Oh, go on, you’ve twisted my arm.’
Following him out of the church she stopped and pointed to a tree still in its box. ‘What’s that one for?’
‘It’s a spare. It’s a lot bigger than the others and I’m not sure what to do with it. It was in storage, but I decided not to give it to anyone to decorate, didn’t want to be accused of favouritism. I’ll probably just stick it back in the cupboard.’
The box was dusty and held together with yellowed Sellotape. It contained a six-foot tree rather than the three-foot ones that were dotted about in the window alcoves. An idea began to form. ‘Why don’t we do a collective tree? Get everyone to put a decoration on it that means something to them. Or a gratitude or hope tree. Make some little cards and get everyone to write something on them and then hang them on the tree? It’ll be a community event.’
‘That’s a fantastic idea, Lola! I’m sure lots of people have things to be grateful for this year, what with the festival and that wonderful mural celebrating our fishing heritage, and life in Polcarrow looking to be on the up. I’d certainly put tea and toast at Lola’s on mine.’ Tristan grinned.
‘You charmer.’ Lola swatted the compliment away, her heart warmed by Tristan admitting her café was what he was most grateful for as she waited for him to grab his coat. ‘So, did you find anything about our mysterious Charlie?’
‘Sadly not much,’ he said as he zipped up his coat. ‘I’m sorry to disappoint you. I was hoping there’d be a photo or something but all I could find was his entry in the baptism records. Born 1928, which would have made him twenty-two at the time Ruby visited.’
‘Twenty-two,’ Lola echoed, ‘that seems so young now. Maybe . . . No.’
‘What?’
Lola sighed. ‘Maybe I should just ask Alf?’
They walked in silence contemplating this.
‘You could,’ Tristan ventured. ‘What’s stopping you?’
‘It’s a big thing for me to get my head around, to think Ruby actually came here, that she knew Alf and fancied his brother. Or who we assume is his brother. I know it doesn’t end well because Charlie died. Maybe it was just a summer fling,’ Lola sighed.
Sensing there was more Tristan supplied, ‘But?’
‘The letters.’
‘You’ve still not read them?’
Lola shook her head. ‘Part of it still feels like I’m trespassing. I keep thinking of how Alf tells everyone to not dwell on the past and here I am raking it all up. The box was hidden so maybe none of us were meant to know. And here I am going through it like it’s a romance novel. My grandmother had a lovely long life, she was happily married to Ernest in the end, but I can’t help my curiosity.’
‘That’s understandable. I’m here for you whatever you decide and whenever you want to talk about it. You don’t have to do any of this alone,’ he said as he unlocked his front door and held it open for her.
‘Thank you. I think I might take a break from reading the diary for a while,’ Lola said, pausing slightly before stepping over the threshold. ‘I can’t believe I’ve not been in here before,’ she said, taking in the slightly outdated décor in the hallway.
‘You’ll be the only one. When I first arrived there was a steady stream of callers bearing cakes, biscuits and words of advice about the village.’
‘What did Alf tell you?’
‘To not to listen to everyone else. Miserable lot, he called them, all stuck in their ways.’
Lola laughed. ‘Sounds like Alf. I wonder if what happened with his brother is why he’s so against looking at the past? Once upon a time I would’ve gone in all guns blazing, tossed the photo on the table and asked him to tell me everything.’
‘I’m sure he’d be willing to talk to you, but I understand your concerns. Shipwrecks and storms were commonplace in seafaring communities, but it was also a long time ago. Maybe Alf would find it comforting to remember his youth?’ Tristan took Lola’s coat and scarf and hung them on the rack by the front door. ‘We do have a tendency to romanticise the past. Oh, I didn’t mean anything about you, of course,’ he blustered as he spied Lola’s 1950s style dress.
‘No offence taken,’ she said, laying a reassuring hand on his arm. ‘I know what you mean. I like the style but I’m not sure I would’ve liked to live in those times. I probably wouldn’t have been allowed to run my own business.’
Lola took in the hallway; the telephone table with an ancient landline plugged in. ‘Does that go straight to God?’ she asked, picking up the receiver.
Tristan took it from her. ‘Only I have his number and I’m not at liberty to dish it out. Go through.’ He indicated to the living room.
‘Spoilsport.’ Lola pretended to sulk as she walked up the hall into the living room. It was homely, decorated more for the previous, older resident. Dark green armchairs and sofa, an electric fire and paintings of the countryside on the walls. ‘Didn’t they redecorate for you?’
