Part One: The Day Before Christmas Eve

The train eased to its final stop at Newquay station’s single platform, and I got up to heave my duffle bag down from the overhead shelf. Even though this was the end of the line – only another couple of hundred metres would have had us completing our journey in the sea – it was packed with people looking to enjoy their Christmas in the warm embrace of Cornwall’s magic, some visiting family, others escaping it. Tomorrow was Christmas Eve and the slightly steamy carriage was lively with excitement and anticipation – and a sprinkle of festive jumpers.

My phone pinged and I pulled it out of my pocket. A text from my father: ‘Car park full. Driving round. See you by post box.’ I surveyed the eager crowd gathering by the doors and sent up silent thanks that I was to be saved from playing my part in the inevitable wait for a taxi. My father, Peter Lowell, retired solicitor and all-round good egg, was reliable to a fault.

The train doors were released and passengers streamed onto the platform. I followed the crowd out to the car park, chaotic with cars circling, reversing and double-parked. I turned left and made my way towards the red pillar box on the corner. A watery sun was doing its best to brighten the winter afternoon. I texted my father to tell him I’d arrived and a few minutes later his dark blue Jaguar saloon pulled into the station approach. He did a quick u-ey and came to an abrupt halt in front of me. Exiting cars immediately began to pile up behind him, and I threw my bags onto the back seat, and myself into the passenger seat, as swiftly as possible. We managed to pull away having only been tooted once.

As we waited to turn left onto the main road, my father looked over at me with a smile. “Journey okay? How was the change?”

“The train was packed, but otherwise everything was fine. No problems at Par. I even got a seat all the way.”

He nodded, satisfied. We pulled out into traffic. “Your mother’s looking forward to seeing you. She’s been cooking for the party, of course, but she’s still filled at least a couple of tins with mince pies.”

I smiled. “I cannot wait. Either to see Mum, or her mince pies. Everything going okay with party prep?”

“Oh, you know your mother. She could whip an untidy military manoeuvre into shape in a jiffy.”

I smiled and turned my attention to the passing buildings as we made our way out of Newquay. I lowered the window a few inches and took an inhale of the brisk, clean Cornish air I had missed so much. Relief and the comfort of familiarity washed over me, that precious feeling of homecoming which I’d been looking forward to for weeks. The anticipation had kicked into high gear as my train had pulled out of Paddington and built steadily with every mile we had travelled west. But as soon as the train had rumbled over Brunel’s iron bridge across the Tamar, I’d begun to relax with the knowledge that I was almost home. This year, my usual emotions about returning to Cornwall were augmented by a simmering excitement in the pit of my stomach, and as the fields which surrounded Newquay came into view, the anticipation of what the next two weeks could bring skittered up and filled my chest.

There had been a time, a little over a decade earlier, when I had been excited to leave Cornwall for pastures new, keen to explore the big, much noisier and flashier world beyond, but as the years had passed, I’d come to long for its beauty and wild spirit more and more. This year I’d booked these days off work months ahead, at last able to secure almost two weeks of festive vacation time. Any requests to amend my dates were steadfastly refused. Absolutely nothing would be allowed to interfere with my Cornish Christmas this time.

As we left the roundabout on the edge of town and found ourselves quickly amongst fields and country lanes, I wondered, not for the first time, if I’d been mad to ever leave. My father turned right onto the road which led back towards the sea and our village. The high hedgerows were bare of leaves under the winter sky, and I hoped that this coming year I would finally see them in leaf once again. But for now, I was excited just to see them at all.

We came to the edge of Crantock village, my father pointedly ignoring the recently finished new builds as we drove past. We squeezed between parked and oncoming cars, then turned down the lane to home. Arriving at the narrow entrance to our driveway, flanked on either side by high hedges bursting over stone walls, we pulled in and parked in front of my parents’ handsome, grey stone house.

My father tooted, and a few moments later the front door opened and my mother appeared. She waited, smiling, at the top of the steps, as my father removed my duffle bag from the car. Lucy, our golden retriever, and Donald, our Yorkshire terrier and her partner in crime, were not so patient and came bounding down to greet us. I indulged in a spot of preliminary petting, before following my father up the steps to my mother. My parents’ house was built into the side of a small incline, and the twelve stone steps required to reach the front door were a source of constant irritation to delivery men. The dogs hustled up behind us and powered into the house.

My mother gave me a firm hug and we exchanged hellos. I took in the beautiful silver and white decorated Christmas tree in the hallway and the identically trimmed larger version which I could spy through the living room door. There was extravagant but tasteful festive foliage entwined around the staircase balustrade and arranged over other suitable surfaces, along with a lovely be-ribboned wreath on the front door.

“The house looks beautiful, Mum.”

“Thank you, darling.”

I followed her into her warm, farmhouse-style kitchen. The smell of Christmas baking filled the air. Lydia Lowell was an artist, skilled cook, extreme organiser and force of nature, elegant, poised, and the same dress size at 55 as she had been at 25.

She turned towards the kettle and flicked it on. “Why don’t you go upstairs and get settled, and I’ll make us some tea.”

“Thanks, I won’t be long.”

I climbed the stairs to my room, where my dad had put my bag on the chair. A pile of fresh, fluffy white towels sat on the bed. A sprightly looking poinsettia had been placed on the chest of drawers to add seasonal cheer. I walked over to admire it, noticing a faded and dusty cardboard box, about the size of an office document box, sitting next to it. On top was a yellow sticky note from my mother: ‘Found this when clearing out the loft. Do you want anything in it?’

As I pulled up the flaps of the box, the memory of it came back to me. After I’d been in London for a few years, and my parents had realised that my visits home were going to be few and far between, my mother had asked me to pack away as many as possible of the personal bits and pieces I’d left behind, so they could use my room as a guest room when the need arose. Much I’d just tossed, but I’d also filled a box with various things I wanted to keep, and this was that box.

I peered inside at the contents: a few books, old cards and notes, concert ticket stubs, some faded invitations. I reached in and my hand closed around an envelope. I pulled it out. The paper had stiffened and dried out over the years, but otherwise it was undamaged. I opened it and pulled out a handful of photos. I began to look through them, nostalgia flooding over me as I saw faces from childhood and my teen years I hadn’t seen in reality in a decade or more, many of whom I doubted I would ever see again. But there were some who were still familiar to me, and I stopped as I came to a photo of faces I still knew well, albeit at a distance most of the time. The photo was of me, Summer Lowell, my teenage best friend, Jenna, and the male half of our little gang of four, Jonny and Mike.

Ours having been the last generation whose memories were committed to film and paper, this was no filtered digital image, but a grainy photo with its subjects exposed in all their teenage awkwardness. Both Jenna and I wore too much makeup, Jenna particularly heavy on the eyeliner. Jonny was still trying to decide what to do with his hair, his dark curls too short at the back and too long in the front, half-covering dark, intense eyes. Mike’s dirty blond hair was worn in a close crop, his smile mischievous and confident. The photo had clearly been taken at night, and the memory came back to me as I turned it over to read the note I’d made in my teenage scrawl: Youth Club Xmas Party 5th Form.

Excerpt from A Cornish Winter’s Tale, by Anna Carlyle.

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