Page 4 of The Cornish Christmas Book Clu
Evelyn’s neatly plucked brows shot up.
‘Well, I loved it, Evelyn.’ Tamara decided to go for it. ‘I hadn’t read it before, but I can see it must’ve been such a shocker when it was written. The book doesn’t flinch away from exposing the darkness that’s in all of us. We tend to see love as selfless, but this story shows it can be the most selfish of emotions. That’s part of what makes it a hard read. I’ve always been a fan of Gothic literature and this is the pinnacle for me.’ Several people stared as though she’d grown two heads. ‘I think the fact it was written by a woman who lived a very isolated life makes it even more pertinent.’
‘Those are very perceptive comments.’ It stung her to hear Evelyn sound so surprised. ‘I’ll put you down as a yes, you’re glad you read it, and Laura as a no?’
They both nodded. Melissa was the only other one siding with Evelyn and Tamara. That was no great surprise because as a book editor she read a wide range of genres.
Josie, an intensely practical nurse, said she had better things to do with her limited spare time than read about a bunch of dysfunctional people, several of whom needed mental-health evaluations in her opinion.
Tamara had wrongly assumed that Amy might appreciateWuthering Heightsbecause the paralegal tended to favour more serious books, but not this time.
Good, sensible, motherly Becky said it wasn’t her sort of thing, but she could see why some liked it. That was her polite way of saying it was a load of rubbish. Ever the peacemaker.
‘If anyone is interested, a new film adaptation is coming out next year.’ Evelyn’s dismissive tone implied she wouldn’t be watching it. ‘Has anyone any further insights to share?’
Josie spoke up. ‘I think we’re ready for whatever treats Melissa has in store.’ It was a given that the host for the month laid on drinks and snacks, any sort of cake being a perennial favourite of the group. ‘Then I, for one, want to see the fancy new bathroom Nathan says would make his father turn in his grave.’
They all knew about the deal Melissa had made when she’d married Nathan. He’d been her late husband’s best friend, and a rather traditional dyed-in-the-wool bachelor when they’d got together. She’d agreed to move into his beautiful old Victorian house if she could make some changes. Old Mr Kellow, Nathan’s dad, had been a stickler for treating the place like a museum exhibit to be preserved at all costs, whereas in Melissa’s view there was a huge difference between respecting tradition and being a slave to it.
Tamara didn’t consider herself an envious woman, but would happily give her soul for this house. Melissa’s updates were already making it shine and she had more planned. Sympathetic double glazing had been fitted to the original sash windows. Boldly painted walls showed off the ornate white ceiling mouldings. A colourful piece of striking modern art hung above the black cast-iron fireplace instead of a dingy fox-hunting scene. Tamara’s absolute favourite space was the kitchen and she dreamily imagined herself baking there. Modern appliances were interspersed with free-standing cabinets painted in a soft duck-egg blue and gleaming copper pans hung from the ceiling. The newly installed open-shelving showed off charming pieces of china and glass, authentic to the period, that Tamara hadhelped to track down. It’d been sheer bliss to indulge her love of poking around car-boot sales and flea markets with someone else’s money.
‘A bit different from our cramped terraces, isn’t it?’ Laura glanced around the spacious living room. She and Tamara lived in two of the village’s many former council houses.
‘You could say that.’ Tamara playfully rolled her eyes. ‘Come on, it’s time to get down to the serious business of the night. I’m starved. I gave up dinner because I heard there’d be brownies. Not that brownies are veryWuthering Heights.’ She grinned. ‘Heathcliff seems more like a “crust of mouldy bread and hunk of cheese” sort of guy. Ripped apart with his sharp teeth.’
The noise level rose as everyone swarmed into the kitchen. There was a lot of chatter about Christmas, along with a little good-natured competition as to who’d started their festive shopping and who hadn’t given it a thought. Tamara belonged to the latter group, as opposed to the super-organised Amy who fanatically raided the post-Christmas sales for bargains to gift people the following year.
‘Are our cakes homemade again, Tamara?’ Laura asked.
‘Of course they are.’
At least she didn’t have to puzzle over what to buy her book-club friends. A couple of years ago, Josie was complaining that a decent Christmas cake was wickedly expensive to buy these days and she certainly didn’t have time to make her own. Tamara had offered to make one for her and before she knew it, everyone wanted one.
‘You know I always bake them the first week of October. They get a dousing with brandy every week until early December. Then they have to dry out a bit before the marzipan goes on and they’re iced.’
Icing them was the fun part, because she personalised the decorations. Sometimes they’d be linked to a hobby or interest,and on other occasions they reflected a significant event that had happened to that person during the year.
‘You’re so awesome to do that for us. It’s my favourite gift.’
Tamara noticed Becky and Evelyn huddled off in one corner, deep in conversation. Evelyn was grimacing and Becky looked far from her usual happy-go-lucky self. Suddenly, without saying goodbye, Becky disappeared out the back door.
So much for being more open with each other. It seemed Tamara wasn’t the only one who’d been putting on a brave front tonight.
* * *
Gage set down the scrubbing brush and stretched his back until it gave a satisfying pop. After the signing late yesterday he’d been too antsy to go back to his bed-and-breakfast accommodation, so he’d come straight here and spent the night cleaning the flat. Over the years it had mostly served as storage space for the shop, but minimal improvements under the last owners had made it suitable for residential let. It wasn’t fancy, but would certainly do him for now.
He dumped the dirty water down the sink and tidied everything away before heading back downstairs. It was almost nine o’clock in the morning now and the pale autumn sun was doing its best to break through the grey, cloudy sky.
He gazed out the large bay window that faced Church Street and stared across to The Rusty Anchor pub. It was definitely on his list of places to check out soon.
When he’d been stuck in grim situations around the world, conversations with his fellow marines had frequently turned to reminiscences of home. Escapism in its simplest form. It helped when you were coping with sand sneaking into every crevice of the body and fighting to keep clean with wet wipes, to dream of sitting around a roaring fire in an old pub with real ale on tap.
Gage chuckled. Knowing his luck, Penworthal’s hostelry would be all fake-oak beams, noisy, jangling fruit machines and blaring music.
To the left of the pub was the Penworthal Stores, which would be useful to have on the doorstep.
The young postman pushing his delivery trolley came to an abrupt stop outside and peered in, as if surprised to see signs of life. From Gage’s understanding, this property had been various things in its time including a barber’s and a short-lived nail salon, but had stood vacant for a couple of years after the café it had most lately housed had gone out of business. The postman gave a cheery wave and ambled on.
