Invitation To A Cornish Christmas. Marguerite Kaye

to colour her view.

      The mouth-watering smell of fresh-baked bread wafted from the baker’s yard at the rear of the shop. ‘We’ve no pasties ready yet, if that’s what you’re after.’ Eliza Menhenick eyed Emily with her customary reserve.

      ‘Thank you, I would like a loaf of that delicious-smelling bread, Mrs Menhenick.’

      ‘What size of loaf would suit you, Miss Faulkner?’

      ‘The smallest one you have, as usual.’ Emily forced a smile. She’d been buying her bread here for nigh on seven months, yet each time Eliza Menhenick asked the same question, determined to remind Emily that she was a stranger in Porth Karrek, and a solitary one at that. How long would it take, she wondered as she left the shop, the bread tucked into a fold in her cloak, before she was accepted as one of the locals? A lifetime most likely, and for the likes of Eliza Menhenick and Jago Bligh, even that probably wouldn’t be enough.

      The village shop run by the Chegwin family was at the bottom of Budoc Lane, facing directly on to the harbour. Besides groceries, the shop stocked a bit of everything, from rope, needles, cotton, and the rough-spun, oiled wool used to knit fishermen’s jumpers, to nails, ink, pencils, herbs and spices, and cooking pots. There were everyday candles of tallow, more expensive ones of beeswax, and the most beautiful carved and scented candles made by Cloyd Bolitho, a melancholy candlemaker who looked as fragile as his creations. The Chegwins also stocked flagons of rough cider, the strong fermented apple drink that Emily suspected would crack her head open with one taste. There were other, unmarked barrels in the shop too, which it didn’t take a genius to work out contained contraband. She had enjoyed a glass or two of Bordeaux in the past, but she couldn’t afford such a luxury now, and in any case knew better, as an incomer, than to suggest to the Chegwins that they would be able to sell her such a thing. The shop smelled of a particularly pleasant combination of tea leaves and coffee beans and cheese and—for some reason—wood shavings, but Emily had no purchases to make there today.

      The harbour beach, a mixture of sand and stones, sloped steeply down to the water. The tide was still out, leaving the limpet-covered harbour wall exposed. A number of the smaller boats were beached on the sand, their moorings at full stretch, though the bigger pilchard boat belonging to Jago Bligh was tied up close to the wall, and still afloat on the water. The air was rich with the tang of the sea, the remnants of yesterday’s catch, and that distinctive smell of brine-soaked nets and rope which Emily had never been able to put a name to, but which was another reminder of happier times, watching the catch come in on her grandfather’s herring fleet at Stornaway harbour.

      She wandered out along the harbour wall to stand at the furthest point gazing out beyond the headland to the sea, where The Beasts were only just visible, the waves cresting white as the incoming tide broke over them. Beyond the wall the sea was grey-blue, but inside it was calm, turquoise, the sandy seabed visible, shoals of tiny fish darting about in the seaweed.

      Picking her way back through the ropes, creels and nets, she saw a tall figure striding down Budoc Lane, recognising him immediately. Treeve didn’t get far before he was waylaid by the butcher. The two men struck up what looked from this distance like a friendly conversation.

      Emily stood in the lee of the Ship Inn, curious to see what the other villagers would make of their new landlord. Phin was laughing at something Treeve had said. The two men shook hands. The butcher, in her view, had an inflated opinion of himself but there were no sides to him, from what Emily had seen, and she liked that about him. When she’d arrived in the village back in April, Phin had been openly curious rather than hostile, his blunt questions as to where she had come from and what she was doing in Cornwall a refreshing change from the mutterings and speculation of most of the others. She had, of course, answered none of his questions, and to his credit he’d not persisted either. A man who liked plain dealing. He and Treeve would likely do well together.

      How the Menhenicks received Treeve, she had no idea, for he disappeared into the shop for a good ten minutes. Several other villagers watched his progress towards the harbour front, some answering his ready smile with a doffed cap, a curtsy, a handshake, others a sullen look, one or two with a pointedly turned back. She could have avoided him altogether and headed back up Budoc Lane while he was in the Chegwins’ shop, clearly on a mission to make himself known to one and all, but that would be to attach an importance to him she had decided she didn’t want to encourage. So Emily waited, intending to bid him a polite good day, before heading home.

      ‘Ah, the very person!’ Treeve exclaimed, emerging from the shop. ‘If I hadn’t bumped into you here, I’d have called at your cottage. I’m afraid I haven’t had a moment to call my own since I last saw you.’

      ‘I did warn you that would be the case.’

      ‘You’re on your way home,’ he said. ‘I don’t suppose you can wait for half an hour or so, then I can walk back with you? No, it’s wrong of me to ask. The light is good. You’ll be wanting to get back to your workbench, so I won’t detain you.’

      ‘I can spare half an hour,’ Emily found herself saying, which she wouldn’t have, had not Treeve acknowledged that she too had other claims on her time.

      ‘Thank you,’ he said, smiling. ‘I appreciate that. I’m told I can get a decent cup of coffee at the Ship, will you join me?’

      ‘I’m not sure that I’ll be welcome there. As a female, I mean.’

      ‘This is not London, Emily. The Ship has always been the hub of the village, a place for men, women and children to relax—not in the taproom, obviously, but there is a parlour.’ Treeve pursed his lips. ‘But you must know that, you’ve lived here long enough. What you mean is that you don’t think you’d be welcome as an outsider. I’ll let you into a secret. I am not convinced I’ll be welcome either, and I own the place. Shall we step inside and find out?’

      ‘Oh, what the devil,’ Emily said, earning herself a raised brow and a conspiratorial smile.

      The parlour of the Ship was empty. It was cosy and low ceilinged, a fire smouldering in the stone grate that took up most of one wall. The floors were bare boards, pitted and scarred from decades of contact with the customers’ hobnail boots, the seating a combination of tall settles on two walls, and rickety chairs, with a scattering of small wooden tables, as scarred and pitted as the floor. The air was pungent with the smell of stale ale and the vinegar used to mop it up. The room was dark, lit only by a small window, and smoky, not only from the fire but the open hatch through which the taproom could be seen—and could likely be heard too, Emily presumed, were it not for the deathly silence which greeted their arrival.

      Treeve pulled two chairs and one of the tables closer to the fire, stretching his long legs out to rest on the hearth. He was wearing buckskin breeches and boots today, another wide-skirted coat, dark blue, made of fine wool, with a waistcoat to match. His linen was pristine, making his beard seem more blue than black—not that it was quite a beard. Emily wondered how he managed to keep the bristle in trim, for he looked like a man who must shave at least twice a day, yet it was every bit as neat and tidy as it had been when she first saw him.

      A low mutter had resumed in the taproom, but no one had yet appeared to serve them. Treeve, rolling his eyes, was just pushing back his chair to get up, when the door opened.

      ‘Captain Penhaligon.’ Derwa Nancarrow, the Ship’s formidable landlady, was about the same age, Emily reckoned, as herself, with the black hair and very pale skin of the Celt so common in Cornwall. She was a handsome woman, with deep-set brown eyes and a mouth that was capable of producing a sultry smile, but today was decidedly sullen. ‘How may I help you?’

      ‘I see I have no need to introduce myself,’ Treeve said, getting to his feet. ‘How do you do, Mrs Nancarrow? I don’t think we’ve met before.’

      ‘I’m from Helston. You had left Porth Karrek for the navy before I married Ned. Your brother is much missed. He was a true Cornishman.’

      If